


You Thought Life Would Be This Perfect Ball (And You Would Dance Like a Ballerina)

by caer



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caer/pseuds/caer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wishes she couldn’t read him like she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Thought Life Would Be This Perfect Ball (And You Would Dance Like a Ballerina)

**Author's Note:**

> Title: You Thought Life Would Be This Perfect Ball (And You Would Dance Like a Ballerina)  
> Rating/Warning: T  
> Spoilers: Season 2  
> Word Count: 1 185  
> Character/Paring: Addison, Mark/Addison, references to Derek/Addison  
> Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.  
> Recipient: waltzmatildah 
> 
> A/N: Thanks to citron_presse for beta-ing.

+

She finds him wearing a path on the hardwood in the study. “What took you so long?” he growls, catching her off guard with the heat behind his words. 

They have a five minute waiting period for a reason. He knows this. They shouldn’t be doing this in the first place, not with Derek and their annual holiday party just downstairs. It’s too risky. But it’s even riskier to have him brooding in a secluded corner, tracking her with his eyes while she hung on the arm of another man. The three may be close, but even Derek wouldn’t be blind to the lust in his best friend’s eyes, not when she was being leered at the entire night. 

Mark is less than happy with the situation; she knows that – he has expressed it quite vocally, in fact. It can’t be helped, she tells herself, Derek forced them into this, neglecting one and refusing to confide in the other. 

She narrows her eyes, about to jut out a snide remark about him having the tolerance of a 5 year-old, when he moves – stalks towards her, really – and there is an instant where his eyes catch the light off the window. The cool blue of his irises holding an odd gleam in the quiet darkness of the room. It’s piercing, the effect, and coupled with the clench of his jaw and the dangerously predatory hunger in his eye, it has her holding her breath and biting her tongue. 

He is far from modest about space, not leaving an inch between them as she retreats into the door and he follows, one hand moulding itself to her hip and the other palming her cheek in a manner that is more possessive and controlling than the gesture might imply. When he finally kisses her, it is hard and fast, almost brutal in the way he takes.

Anger.

She can’t see his face – doesn’t need to – instead can read it in the way his mouth slides over hers, tongue pressing roughly against her lips, demanding (not gently probing) her to open up; the way his muscles tense and knot under her fingers; in how his seem to seek refuge in her flesh.

She wishes she couldn’t read him like she does. Didn’t know his body well enough to tell what is normal and what is not. But she does and she can. And she’s torn between feeling guilty and feeling like it’s her right as a married woman to know a man so intimately.

(if only that man were her husband)

But she doesn’t dwell on that. Doesn’t allow herself to think about what she is doing, who she is becoming – 

– her father’s daughter – 

No. 

That’s not a road she’s willing to wander down. So she concentrates on Mark’s mouth. Mark’s hands. Mark’s body. Focuses instead on the wiry hair grasped firmly in her hands, giving a sharp tug to urge him closer.

He hasn’t slowed down in his assault. His palm has moved from cupping her cheek to cupping her jaw, rendering her immobile to move her head unless he permits it. Control. She gives it freely and he takes it without pause. His tongue sweeps broadly the inside of her mouth, over her teeth and the roof of her mouth, the overwhelming taste of scotch filling her senses, before he retracts and drags his teeth over her bottom lip. He isn’t gentle. Harsh nips and bites take precedence and he’s trying to devour her whole in the way he’s relentless, she’s sure of it. It’s not normally like this, the recklessness and the abandonment of restraint. He’s usually more tactile, employing an art of lazy seduction that leaves her frustrated before they’ve even begun. 

A slow burn starts in her lungs, first sign of the deprivation of oxygen. She tries to tear her mouth free, but he’s having none of it, growling – actually growling – when her fingers drag over his scalp in an effort to slow him down. The grip on her jaw tightens, and he pushes her farther, working lips and teeth into a combination on the threshold of pain and pleasure. The slacks he’s wearing do nothing to contain his erection, and when he grinds his hips into hers once, twice – it’s entirely too much, and she moans into his mouth. Light-headedness sets in, and everything instantly dulls. She needs him to stop, needs to breathe – instinct takes over and she promptly digs her teeth into his lower lip, breaking the thin defence of skin to draw blood. He jerks his head away abruptly, then slumps forward, hand falling from her jaw to clutch her side, leaning his weight into her while hiding his face in the juncture where her shoulder meets her neck. 

He’s panting hard, rapid puffs of air leaving her already sweaty skin hot and clammy as she draws in a shaky breath – can hear the blood pounding between her ears, and attempts to regain some sense of composure. “Mark.” It comes out as a squeak, so she clears her throat and tries again, “Mark.” His response is to press his lips softly against the expanse of her neck, tongue languidly drawing patterns as it travels up, and when he kisses her this time, it’s intimately soft and drawn out. This time she feels it down to her toes, the pulsing gratification, as he strokes the roof of her mouth, threads his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head. Her own hands trail from his hair to his ears – a surprisingly erogenous area for him, she’s learned – thumbs rubbing lethargic circles. The guttural groan he releases sends little shocks starting from her lips and spreading to every nerve in her body, the pleasant hum diffusing throughout.

He pulls away a moment later, leaving her flushed and, once again, out of breath. A flicker of emotion laces his eyes, and Addison aptly ignores it. “Enjoying the view?” she asks humourlessly when all he does is stare – knows that it has nothing to do with looks and everything to do with the impossible circumstance at hand.

“Derek is my best friend,” he says quietly.

She swallows. This isn’t the first the conversation has come up. “He’s my husband,” she replies just as quiet, reminding him who’s transgressing the greater sin – and the greater guilt. He eyes her sharply, like he’s about to argue who has more rights over him. 

All he does is shake his head though, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

She expels a heavy breath. Thumps her head against the door. “What the hell are we doing, Mark?”

He half-shrugs, the image of nonchalance now. Framing her face with his hands, he brushes his lips lightly atop hers, nipping gently. 

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Any of it. Her and Derek were supposed to last a lifetime. Mark was supposed to remain the sleazy best friend of her husband. Not an illicit lover. Not…the possibility of something more. 

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he sighs into her mouth.

It was supposed to be perfect.

+

~ Fin


End file.
